Shared
by Oparu
Summary: Neither Melinda or Phil can sleep, so they talk. post-finale, talking, cuddling and working things out.


Her nightmares rise quickly. They've lived within her since she had to let him go, and his return to life hasn't chased them. His life is fragile now, a precious thing she can't take her eyes off of, lest it vanish.

She's well acquainted with her own need to suffer. Punishing herself is as familiar as her nightmares. She sees him, lying on the deck of the helicarrier. His blood drips onto the deck below, thundering in the silence. Loki stands above him, then walks away. His death meant nothing to a god. Blood continues to fall, smashing like stones.

Gasping, she wakes in the darkness. Phil's in her doorway a moment later.

"May?"

"I'm all right." Her words croak, and she wouldn't believe herself.

He sits on the bed, like he used to. "Bahrain?"

She shakes her head. "Not anymore."

He touches her shoulder and she jumps back because his fingers burn. Chastising herself, she takes a breath, then another. When she reaches for him, it's easier. His dry skin calms her, because even her palms are soaked in sweat.

"Were you awake?" Did she scream? Does anyone else know? Her nightmares are never part of the legend of the Cavalry. No one spreads stories at the Academy about how hard it is to sleep.

"My mind won't shut down." He shrugs and takes her hand. "Do you want to talk about it?"

What's she supposed to say? That she dreams of his body, slumped on the deck while the boots of a god step over him?

She shakes her head. "It won't help." Pulling her knees up, she stares at him. His face has already softened. The anxiety he carries during the day, with all the weight of S.H.I.E.L.D., is gone in this moment because she had a nightmare. She cried out, and he put aside his worries and came.

Leaning closer, she touches his shoulder, then his chest, wanting to feel his heart beat beneath her fingers. He doesn't move away, he never does, but he never pushes any closer. He's too careful for that. "What's in your mind?"

"I don't know," he says. His weak smile always makes him look younger. "I don't remember. I wake up, and my mind's racing. Sometimes, I'm even out of bed, but I can never remember what's happening."

He brushes her damp hair off her forehead. "I was going to make some tea."

She shakes her head. "Hot chocolate."

"Deal," he says, nodding. He gives her a hand out of the bed, because he knows that the adrenaline will make her legs shaky. He knows how vulnerable she is, moments after hell's left her mind. He knows, and she doesn't mind. It's easier than having to repeat herself. He knows how terror runs through her body. How hard it is to fear something she can't fight, can't push away.

His arm slips around her back and she lets her own slide around him. it's powdered hot chocolate, and ultra-pasteurised milk because the Playground keeps everything in dry storage. When he stayed with her, after Bahrain, he made real hot chocolate where he melted it in. She stood next to the stove and watched the little pieces disappear. He didn't mind when she couldn't speak. He put food in front of her, spoke to her when she thought the whole world had given up on her. He's been her constant and he's buried in her heart deeper than she'll ever admit.

She needs to help him.

Standing next to him while he stirs, Melinda shuts her eyes and listens to the clink of metal. He's wearing his favourite old t-shirt and she knows what it smells like because she's worn it. Damn thing must have holes in it somewhere by now, but she remembers the feel of it on her skin. He sits at the table and she sits next to him instead of across. She needs the scent of him, and the sound of his breathing because her heart still wants to race. She's not running anymore. No more hiding in a windowless room. She'll stand her ground because it's by his side, and that's where she needs to be. Fury knew that, and she loves the bastard for bringing Phil back.

Her arms end up around his, and they're a tangle of hands and mugs. Her head rests on his shoulder and that familiarity rears between them, filling in the silence.

"Is it Skye?" he asks. His cheek lies against her head, just for a moment. She turns, wanting to see his eyes.

"Skye?"

"I had nightmares about losing her, after Quinn-"

She nods and reaches for his face, even though he's too dear for that kind of intimacy. His stubble tickles her thumb. "I did too."

"She's all right. She's strong." The unasked question floats between them about Ward, and his betrayal went deep, but he doesn't wake her in a cold sweat.

"It's you."

"Me?" He sets down his hot chocolate, making a sound somewhere between a cough and a chuckle. "I'm fine."

"You weren't."

"May-"

She shuts her eyes and cups his face. The warmth of him suffuses her hands and her fingers remember the contours of his cheeks. "It was very difficult to bury you."

He covers her hands with his own, protecting her with his hands. "I can't imagine."

"And I see you, sometimes, on the helicarrier-"

"Melinda-"

"And it's hard to let go of," she finishes. She gulps her hot chocolate but it's sickly sweet in her mouth now.

"I'll try to stay away from confrontations with gods."

"Thank you."

He kisses the back of her hands, one after the other, then slips past them to hold her face, just as she held his a moment ago. "I'm glad you're back."

"You've said that."

He smirks. "I'll say it again."

"I had to go."

Phil nods and his thumbs brush beneath her eyes, finding tears she didn't know where there. "I know and I'm sorry."

Kissing his palms, she smiles. "I wasn't talking about that."

Shrugging, he touches a finger to her lip. "I owed you an apology."

She tilts her chin once. It's accepted; it already was.

"I'm still glad you're back," he repeats.

"Because everyone else sleeps?"

He nods quickly. "So far." Hopefully their little family can avoid nightmares for awhile. Though Skye's confessed that Ward haunts her, and Simmons jumps at every loud clang of metal. They're young. Perhaps they can avoid some of the monsters that wait in the dark.

"They're strong."

"I know, you chose well." He raises his eyebrows, because he's teasing her.

Shaking her head, she sighs. "You did. You know people."

"I didn't know Ward."

"None of us did."

He strokes her shoulder and the warmth of him against her bare skin reminds her of Ward in her bed, but for once, anger doesn't flare in her belly. He had his mission. She didn't see it. She was played, used, and she fell for it. Letting him in was a mistake, but the others: Skye, Simmons, Fitz, even Tripp, they're not. They're better close.

Phil's better close. There's so little distance between them now that she shares his breathing.

"I'm sorry."

"For Ward?"

"I thought-" he sighs, berating himself, "I thought I could help him."

"He built that, he knew, Garrett knew, what you're like. You like to save people."

He's saved her, but he never quite believes it. She did the work, but he kept her safe.

"I killed him. He was my friend for years and I killed him."

"He wasn't your friend."

"Felt like it sometimes," Phil says.

"He couldn't be saved."

He finishes the last of his hot chocolate and nods. "I know."

Neither of them know if Ward will be different. She's not sure if she wants him to be. It's easier when their enemies are evil. When they're Quinn or Garrett, it's easy to know they must be put down. Ward's a grey place. She's been in that grey place. There were nights she thought that she'd be better put down. Taken out before she killed again, before she started to like it.

She sets the empty mugs in the sink to deal with in the morning. Touching Phil's neck, she wraps herself around his shoulders. She needs him.

"Your sheets are still damp."

Melinda starts to protest that she can change them, but Phil takes her hand and guides her to his room. Neither of them want to be alone. Maybe neither of them can handle it tonight. Maybe he needs her just as much.

He crawls in and she shuts off the light before she follows. He opens up the blankets for her and a moment later, they're curled around each other, like the old days. Either one of them could wake up screaming, but they won't. They don't, not like this, not when the other one's there. He wraps his arm around her stomach, holding her close.

"How's your mind?"

"Stalled," he teases. It's late, but they both could rise to the occasion, if they wanted to. It would be safe, because it's always been safe between them, but sex isn't the answer. Not tonight.

She toys with his fingers, feeling the bones beneath his skin. "Thank you."

"You know where I am," he reminds her. The invitation's always there, and now that they're trying to be honest with each other, when he knows Fury's secrets, it feels more genuine.

"You need your sleep," she protests. She can't crawl into his arms every time she has a nightmare.

"I sleep better like this." He nuzzles the back of her neck. "You know that."

She didn't.

"I thought I kept you up." She wriggles and turns. She talks in her sleep. Darkness tries to claim her and she has to fight it back.

"You did, then."

She turns, wanting to look at him, even if it's too dark to see much of his face. "And now?"

"Now our demons are just going to have to take turns."

He shouldn't have to share the voices in the darkness. She never wanted him to know what she does; to fear his own eyes closing. He saw death and she was death. They're both touched by it.

Melinda leans closer. Gently, he kisses her cheek, and she shuts her eyes. Not tonight, but soon. Neither of them have that much self-control, and no one feels as good as he does. Tonight they share the darkness, and neither of them are conquered.


End file.
